


Threadbare

by TheBraillebarian



Series: Schrödinger's Labyrinth [2]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, Nightmares, Sex, Somnophilia, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29421438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraillebarian/pseuds/TheBraillebarian
Summary: Moments in dark corners of an endless maze.Short stories and vignettes about Melmord, Magnus, and Charles from Schrödinger's Labyrinth.
Relationships: Magnus Hammersmith/Melmord Fjordslorn, Melmord Fjordslorn/Charles Foster Offdensen
Series: Schrödinger's Labyrinth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2161302
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Cut You Wide Open - Melmord/Charles

**Author's Note:**

> Relationships are listed in the chapter titles and any warnings or fetishes in the chapter summary.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood, swords, neck wounds.
> 
> I tripped over some stunning Agaricales art and words fell out. :) Yes the title is a reference to Cautionary Tales of Swords. :D

Is it an accident, a slip of the hand, as if Charles Offdenson could be capable of any mistake? Has it been planned, some not so deep desire the man’s been harboring to relive a cherished memory? Does it matter?

The blade slips under his jaw with force like a punch and Melmord groans. He can hear the metal scrape inside his skull, grinding over the inside of his jawbone. It cuts his tongue with the same razored surprise of glass across a finger. He can feel it pinned in his neck just a hair shy of everything vital. He smiles. 

He is ever so aware of Charles’ hand at his waist, his own palm pressed flat to the man’s chest. The son of a bitch has the audacity to look discomfited at Melmord frozen in something like rapture. Hot blood meanders down the blade and his exposed neck. 

With a flick the metal slides free and Melmord collapses. He moans around the hole in his throat, the thigh pressed firm between his legs. 

“S’it good fer you?” he gasps thickly, red pooling under his cheek where it’s crushed to Charles’ breast. 

Whatever answer the man gives swirls into meaningless noise as he faints.


	2. Morning Brew - Melmord/Magnus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hand job, noisy sex, trans character.
> 
> Prompt fill for Agaricales! “Are you wearing my shirt?”

### Chapter Text

“Is that my shirt?” Melmord hides his grin behind a sip of coffee, brows climbing toward his hair.

Magnus looks down at the lurid floral print draped over his skinny frame. Some of the reds and pinks match the still healing scars on his chest, the whites contrasting nicely against the other much older wounds. He looks startled for a moment and picks at the hem. 

“It’s dark in there,” he grumbles. “Thought it was mine.”

“Looks good on you.”

A slow, owlish blink. He’ll never say it but Melmord loves how awkward Magnus is first thing in the morning. Grogginess has a way of softening his edges, or at least making it not worth the effort for him to wield all that sharpness. He watches Magnus shuffle to the coffee pot, the shirt not quite long enough to cover his back let alone anything else. 

Unable to resist, Melmord leaves his coffee and presses himself flush to Magnus’ back, hands wandering over bony hips. Magnus makes a contemplative noise, fingers tapping on the counter, before pressing his hips back. Melmord dips still warm fingers into loose boxers, also his, combining through hair to circle and stroke. His underwear is loose on Magnus, giving him room to flex and shift his hand. He mouths at skin exposed by the loose shirt collar and slides his unoccupied hand up Magnus’ inner thigh. 

“I like when you wear my things,” he flexes his fingers, dips them inside. “Looks good. Nice access.”

“Shut up,” Magnus groans. 

Melmord circles his thumb and drags his fingers over a sweet spot he knows well. “I can leave.”

Magnus growls, the sound shivering into something more wanting. Grinning, Melmord pushes deeper, stroking and petting with his free hand. He slowly grinds his hips against Magnus, work slacks already claustrophobic. His teeth skate over flushed skin while the coffee pot burbles, masking the gentle noise of wet friction between them. 

Though his face is turned away and half hidden by sleep tousled hair, Melmord can tell Magnus is biting his lip, trying to hold in his own noises. The man enjoys his morning quiet. It inspires Melmord to twist his fingers ever so slightly, pinch then caress, just to draw a sound out of him. The back under his chest is panting, Magnus’ fingers gripping the countertop white knuckled. Melmord sinks his teeth into muscle, a slow and steady pressure that breaks Magnus’ stubborn resolve and unfurls a rasping moan from his throat. 

“That’s it,” Melmord says into the red tooth marks. “Talk to me, bro.”

With the dam broken, every move strikes a chord. Each shaking breath out of Magnus is a symphony, gasps and nonsense syllables rising in volume as Melmord ups the tempo. He cums with a sharp cry almost at the same time as the coffee pot beeps, spilling hot and slick down Melmord’s hand. 

Melmord is just sliding his borrowed boxers down Magnus’ hips when his phone alarm goes off. 

“Fuck!”

Turning, wet and exposed, Magnus leans on the counter and salutes him with his coffee mug. “Have a nice day at work, champ.”

Melmord flips him the bird with a sticky finger before popping it in his mouth and running for the door.


	3. Urban Decay - Magnus/Melmord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somnophilia, trans sex, nightmares and dreams.
> 
> Agaricales and I were talking about Magnus’ yopo animal being one of those grungy gray city foxes and Charles’ being a pit bull (sweet to his family but bred with jaws that latch onto an enemy’s throat and never let go). Then this happened?

Concrete rubs his paws raw and bleeding, toenails catching and tearing in cracks filled with soot. He is running, wind carding through patched greasy fur, tail clotted with old grime streaking out behind him. One thing is pursuing and he doesn’t know from where, another a dismal shadow over his back, lolling tongue swiping between his legs. Fear and want tangle in him, circling in a loop between heaving breast and kicking thighs. He darts between human legs tall as trees and drags his side against stabbing brickwork. He runs and runs until his head is spinning, a throbbing scream building between tattered ears in counterpoint to the hot need in his groin. Panting, dying, he slams to a stop against a dark alley wall with no escape and the teeth crush into his throat.

Magnus wakes with a choked gasp, hands flying up to strike the presence he can feel bearing down on him in the dark. His fingers claw over muscle and a web of scars as something hot shifts sticky between his legs. 

“Is this a bad time?” 

“Melmord?” He flattens a palm over a broad and textured chest. 

The man shifts awkwardly, hands denting the sheets on either side of Magnus’ ribs. His concerned look is beginning to take shape out of the darkness, lit red by a company issue nightlight. Magnus is breathing hard, from the pressure between them or the dream he doesn’t know. Perhaps both. A hand cautiously touches his cheek. 

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Charles. He was killing me.”

Melmord snorts and Magnus feels it in the dick lodged in him. “On point. What was I doing?”

“I don’t know. This? You were just...there.”

“This is a bad time. I’ll go jack off in the bathroom or something. Try to get some sleep.” He moves to pull out and Magnus grabs for him. 

“No it’s fine. I’m just... Keep going.”

“You sure, man? You’re really out of it.”

“That’s the point isn’t it? Just...keep going.”

“Okay...” he moves between them, drawing back to push further in, rekindling the confused lust from the dream. 

Magnus drifts, too tired and lost to be anything but passive. His eyes slide shut and he sinks into the feel of hot breath on hischest, wanton heat sawing between his legs. His hands drift boneless onto his stomach then slide down to the rumpled sheets. Under him the mattress creaks and it sounds like an animal whimpering in pain, a dog perhaps or a mangy city fox. 

Exhaling, he feels the tide rise, the sound of bodies in motion like waves on rocks. Need coils ever tighter inside him built on a disjointed foundation. It feels like he has been hungry and waiting forever. 

And then, with a snap and a sigh, it washes him away. He leaves behind the red city and floats down a raging river. The rocks don’t hurt him, the water is unaccountably warm. It froths in his blood and pounds between his thighs until it all ebbs away and he is left lying naked in the sun, alone. 

Melmord is gone when he wakes again, a crusted spot on the sheets under him. Magnus rubs one sore thigh in contemplation. He can’t remember what he was dreaming about.


	4. Slow Ride - Magnus/Melmord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Restraint, pinning, slow sex, trans character.
> 
> Magnus’ plans for something quick don’t go as he expected.
> 
> Inspired by Agaricales.

### Chapter Text

“Bro.”

Magnus pretends not to notice the way Melmord’s eyes fix on him, the shift in posture from indolent to focused. The Gear printed boxers ride low on his bony hips, Melmord’s discarded white t-shirt a bit loose in the shoulders and not long enough to hide the trail of dark hair wandering into the pilfered underwear. 

“What?” Magnus quirks a brow. 

“You, uh, mind coming here for a sec?”

A casual shrug. He could play it cool, act like either of them has anything else to do on their day off. Magnus drops into the gap between Melmord’s legs, unsubtly placing his thigh atop the man’s and running a heel over his calf. 

“You need something? Got a comment about my outfit?” Magnus leans into a muscled chest barely contained by pineapple print fabric and presses himself against the bulge in Melmord’s shorts. 

He’s getting ready to turn, take full advantage of the situation, when his right arm is suddenly pinned behind him, crushed between their bodies. It’s easy to forget what Melmord does for work, his speed and quick thinking masked by indolence. One arm pins his chest, fingers dancing electric over a rising nipple, the other hand stroking gentle pressure against Magnus’ neck. 

“Can’t just walk out in those without paying, man,” Melmord’s breath is hot in his ear. “Touch yourself for me.”

The instinct to struggle, to be contrary, rises in Magnus only to be quashed by the body holding him in place. His pinned fingers twitch over fabric and exposed skin where Melmord’s shirt is bunched between them. Obediently he slides his hand under the loose waistband and jolts at his own touch. Melmord hikes the borrowed shirt up higher, trapping Magnus’ arms a little more, thumb running over the divot in his sternum. Magnus strokes himself and groans, the solidity at his back and the hint of danger making the fabric between his thighs cling wetly to his skin. A calloused palm catches and drags at his chest hair, blunt nails pressing under his jaw only enough to make him gasp. Melmord runs his tongue over the shell of Magnus’ ear, teeth brushing the skin as he speaks. 

“What do we say?”

“Fuck me?” Magnus gasps, his fingers wet and instinctively digging at swollen flesh. 

Melmord makes a thoughtful sound, toying with the nipple in his reach. The roll and tight pinch has Magnus biting his lip, head arched back. Need mixes with a frisson of dread in his gut and the certainty that he’s done something wrong builds only to be toppled by Melmord efficiently crushing him into the couch. The hand at his neck is gone, the arm around his chest now holding his wrist in place long enough for Melmord to pull down both of their shorts. Magnus’ other arm is pinned beneath his own body; he waggles sticky fingers at his captor from between his thighs. 

Melmord knows how to use his own weight to his advantage. He leans down, muscle and angle pinning Magnus helpless beneath him. With his hands free he runs them down Magnus’ sides burning a trail of heat that makes the man whine in frustration. Magnus can only just brush the tip of Melmord’s bobbing cock with his pinned fingers. 

“I could listen to this all day,” Melmord lifts his hips just enough to rest his cock over Magnus’ ass, the heat making him growl and squirm in frustration. 

With one hand firmly gripping a shoulder, he uses the other to guide himself in, taking his time to fill Magnus until their bodies are flush to one another’s. Magnus squirms but has no leverage in his position. Melmord digs a hand under them to caress Magnus’ dick. 

“I said ‘fuck me’,” Magnus grouses half into a couch cushion. 

“Oh, no can do, bruh,” Melmord says with a grinning kiss on his cheek and a languorous rock of hips. “I’m getting paid by the minute and I’ve got some overtime.”

His pace is like waiting for a pot to boil, steady and rhythmic and always enough to keep the heat rising. Magnus writhes and pants, feeling hollowed out every time Melmord slowly pulls back but never all the way out. His inward thrusts feel like they last an eternity, his circling fingers making Magnus twitch around the heat impaling him. Melmord busies his mouth sucking and nibbling at ear and neck, humming thoughtfully to himself as every slow motion draws a new and louder sound from the man beneath him. 

“Christ!” Magnus groans, shaking and tense. 

“You need something?” Another slow push that feels like it’s touching everything inside him. 

“I need...need to cum.” Magnus is sweating, trying to squirm in spite of everything holding him down. “I’m so close. Please?”

“Aww. I can’t say no to that.”

He picks up the pace fractionally, still achingly tender, fingers applying a little more pressure. A gasping mewl escapes Magnus as he seizes in a paroxysm of ecstasy. His vision whites out, muscles clenching around the heat filling his insides. It feels like he’s been scattered across the universe, only coming back to himself in trembling pieces. From the corner of his eye he can just see Melmord’s smile, a gentle thing with no trace of smugness. It’s like looking at the sun, too painful, too bright. Magnus shuts his eyes and groans. 

“Mmm, that was nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Melmord is still hard and unyielding inside him. “You gonna finish?”

A hand brushes sweat damp curls from Magnus’ brow. “In a bit.”

He lays a soft kiss on Magnus’ temple and carefully starts to move again.


	5. Cathedral - Magnus/Charles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rough sex. 
> 
> Magnus finds a mysterious room while wandering Mordhaus.

Time has no meaning in Mordhaus. Without Melmord to keep him on any kind of schedule, Magnus only knows of its passing by the length of his beard. He’s never been far enough north to experience it but he thinks this must be what those long nights in Siberia are like, lonely and endless. He explores the halls and forgotten rooms, little caring what he finds and seeing almost no one though he’s sure Charles is watching.

The door is weirdly ornate and solitary in another new corridor. Its handle feels warm in his hand and it opens on silent hinges. Dim hall lighting barely touches a long open space and Magnus ambles in, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dark. Dust rises in his wake as he passes by six towering windows, the glass held in place by winding snarls of iron. There’s something familiar about the space, like he’s been here before. 

It feels like he walks for hours, the shape of the room drawing him deeper with a hazy sense of anticipation. From the shadows he sees the indistinct shape of an altar, wide and perfectly centered, draped with dusty curtains. Magnus only realizes it’s a bed when he’s standing in front of it, a set of three steps intersected by ramps leading up to it. Over the headboard he can just make out something shaped vaguely like a skeletal demonic figure, hands and wings melting into the bed frame. He realizes the familiarity is in the layout: this whole room is constructed like a basilica. 

How ludicrous, how ostentatious! He sneers in the dark. What a wonderful place. Magnus runs his fingers over the dusty bedding not realizing he is smiling.It’s been fifteen years since he’s felt this at home. 

A throat clears distantly and Magnus turns, languid, to see Charles’ shadow in the light from the door. 

“Housekeeping will have this clean within an hour. Maintenance has been but, ah, you can send any work orders to my office should you find anything broken.”

Magnus huffs out a startled laugh, smirking. “Why would I do that?”

“It is, ah, your room. I assume you would prefer it clean and undamaged.” Charles has covered the distance between them efficiently as ever. “Unless that filth caked hole I pulled you out of is more to your liking these days. In which case, I’m sure something could be arranged.”

Shock has robbed him of any arch reply. “My room...?” Magnus almost whispers. 

“Yes.”

“But...” Construction on Mordhaus hadn’t begun until 2001, long after Magnus’ tenure with Dethklok had ended. “Why?”

“It seemed prudent.” Charles slides a hand deftly under Magnus’ hair, patting between his shoulders as if it hasn’t been years. He runs his palm down to rest in the small of Magnus’ back. 

“You did this,” Magnus clenches his fists, trying not to shiver with the weight of realization pressing heavily down on him, the touch he’s hated to miss so suddenly returned. 

He has never doubted that Charles knew more about him than anyone. Now he stands surrounded by the proof of it, an unused room built as if he’d drawn the plans himself. It feels so very right. He wants to throw up. 

“You left me,” he manages past a clot of emotions tangling in his throat. 

“That’s, ah. What you wanted.”

His fingers are so tightly balled that Magnus doesn’t feel his nails pierce flesh, only the hot trickle of blood between his knuckles. Charles moves his hand to a hip, rolling their bodies so they stand face to face. He tugs on Magnus’ beard just firmly enough to bow his head and press their mouths together. 

It’s as warm and welcoming as Charles’ kisses have always been, everything he cannot say melted into a press of skin. He tastes like good brandy and still smells like book paper under his cologne. Magnus wants to tear away, to spit in his face. He smears blood over Charles’ jacket and pulls him closer by the shoulders. 

Kisses leave a burning trail down his neck, his chest, lingering over the new scars before continuing down. Magnus’ knees hit the mattress and he falls, distracted from the unbuckling of his belt by a cloud of dust. 

It’s 1993 and Charles is sucking Magnus’ new dick, the first person to do it. Nothing has changed. Charles knows where to roll his tongue, how to move his lips, the pressure and drag that rips panting cries from Magnus’ gaping mouth. 

Dawn has turned the sky gray and Charles rises over him like a shadow. He had always liked to bring Magnus close to the edge, liked to feel him cum and challenge himself to see how long he could go, how much he could wring out of the man under him. Nothing has changed, save that it’s been years, about fifteen, since Magnus has let anyone this close. The pain is awful and good, a miserable groan worming past his lips. Charles grunts at the tight fit but determinedly rocks his hips. It’s the work of a few moments before Magnus is writhing under him, shivering around him, hoarse cries echoing off the high ceiling. 

He forgets how to count, thighs numb and sticky as dawn’s light reveals the windows to be set with glass in shades of red amidst clear crystal. Magnus’ hands are gritty with dust and sweat and blood. He thrashes and moans, muscles aching from ribs to knees. Charles is close, the stutter of his hips still so very familiar. Past the blood roaring in his ears Magnus can hear the wet slap of their bodies. His hips jerk in one more overpowering climax and between the spots dancing in his vision he feels Charles spill hot and deep inside. 

They watch each other, bodies twitching together while their breathing slows. When Charles pulls away Magnus is left feeling as cold and empty as he had outside a Phoenix apartment in 1999. He lays on the bed unmoving, their comingled body fluids drooling down his thigh. Charles tucks himself neatly away, nods once in Magnus’ direction, and leaves. Numb, aching, Magnus eventually crawls between the dusty sheets and falls asleep with the rising sun. 


	6. Good Night Kiss - Magnus/Charles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for Insurance mnemonic-Coffee, “I miss the old you.”

“Wait.” Magnus’ voice is thin and hoarse from overuse and Charles turns at the pitiful sound. “Could you...stay. ‘Til I fall asleep or something?”

At first he thinks Charles will leave him as has become his habit but then he turns and brusquely sits by Magnus on the bed. He doesn’t have a hair out of place and sits ramrod straight, a sharp contrast to Magnus lying sprawled and shivering atop the red comforter. It takes a great deal of working his raw throat before Magnus speaks again:

“Miss you.”

“I’m, ah, right here.”

“No, man,” he swallows, wincing. “You used to...tuck me in and shit.”

The barest hint of feeling flits across Charles’ face, a wrinkle at the corner of his eye quickly smoothed away. Magnus knows he remembers those same long nights, both of them exhausted, sweat dampened and skin sticking, hair tangled together while they drifted to sleep in one another’s arms. These days Charles never bothers to unbutton his shirt and Magnus has lost count of the times he’s awakened only to fall over his own pants, twisted around his ankles. The pleasure is still intense, overwhelming, but the afterglow leaves Magnus feeling empty and like yet another piece of him has been chipped away.

“I have work to do,” Charles rises abruptly.

“Sure.”

Yet again Magnus finds himself alone. Shakily he claws one edge of the comforter over himself, ignoring the cold wet spot that slaps against his thigh. At least he had the foresight to kick his boots off this time.

**Author's Note:**

> I yell about this show and sometimes post art at [metalrat](https://metalrat.tumblr.com/).


End file.
